Page 116

Henry turns another page. This one has more text but on the opposite page there is another image, far more disturbing than the rest. It shows another circle, but within it a skull is placed atop a small plinth, and lying in front of it a dagger coloured yellow to represent gold. Henry stares down at it with a frown.

‘Did your mother not mention a golden blade?’

‘Yes,’ she says faintly.

He turns another page. More text. He turns another. Line after line of it.

‘This book is completely handwritten,’ he says after a moment. ‘Nothing is printed.’

Henry is right, she acknowledges grimly as he turns the pages, again and again until, finally, he stops. The candle Linette holds flickers, casting Henry’s face into shadow as he looks at what nestles between the pages.

Linette stares, reaches for it with a shaking hand. She brings it up to the candle flame, twists the calamus between forefinger and thumb. It is an old feather, dull, with little of the rainbow sheen she knows should be there, but she knows it all the same, would recognise one of those feathers anywhere.

It is the feather of a black hen.

One of Plas Helyg’s hens.

‘Look,’ Henry says. He points then to the page beneath the feather.

It shows another circle, a circle filled with more symbols. Standing in the middle of it is a naked man, his body covered with those very same patterns. He holds in one hand a golden blade, and at his feet there lies a black hen, blood pooling from its neck.

Guiltily Linette thinks of Merlin. That poor dog. Blamed all these years for something he did not do!

‘This is more than a club for the rich,’ Henry whispers. ‘This is ritualistic.’ He presses her elbow. ‘Look at the writing.’

Henry points at the line of text at the top of the page and in shock Linette stares down at it, unable to fathom what she is seeing:

HOATH, REDAR, GANABEL, BERITH

‘Mamma’s words,’ she whispers.

Henry nods. ‘These aren’t Latin, though.’

‘How do you know?’

‘They just don’t sound Latin. They don’t follow the same rhythm.’

‘What are they then?’

‘I don’t know. But have you not noticed?’

‘Noticed?

‘This isn’t ink.’

Swallowing, Linette brings the candle closer to the page. He is right. The writing is not black, but brown. A faded shade of—

‘Red,’ she breathes. ‘It’s red. You mean …’

‘Blood,’ Henry confirms grimly. ‘This book is written in blood. And there’s something else.’

Linette stares at him. ‘What more can there possibly be?’

‘The paper.’

Henry trails off, runs his hand across the page. Linette places her own hand on the parchment beside his, rubs the pads of her fingertips against the grain. It feels soft, leathery, almost like …

Revulsion turns itself in her stomach.